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Of course you realize this means war

Life's given me a lot to write about lately but nothing I want to publish on the Internet. God knows there are shit-tons of idiots out there who broadcast everything on the Internet from their morning poops to their evening circle jerks.

I'm not one them.

Health scares, financial hardships, family feuds -- they've all been stewing for the past three years. They're still stewing, and all I want to do is hide -- just bury my head in the sand and wait for my f***ing promfuneral; whatever John Bender would say to a 35-year-old Claire Standish. (I love The Breakfast Club.)

What I'm getting at in this scenic-detour sort of way is that I lack the energy -- moxy -- lately to spin my bull s**t into funny anecdotes on the trials and tribulations of being a tortured artist, writer, mother, wife and web analyst. There's only so much Bad News a person can take, and I reached my quota two months ago.

The good news: I'm done hiding

It's time I give Life a swift kick in the balls -- no more apologies for writing; no more accepting "I'll do _____ tomorrow;" no more waiting on hold; no more nodding "yes" when I really mean "no;" no more idleness; and no more compromise. I'M DONE.

Exhibit A: "Get rid of your crap!"

After years of begging Jerod "Let's have a garage sale," I took the choice away from him. We're having a garage sale this week, and whatever toys the kids and Jerod leave laying around the house -- stacked on my kitchen counters and cupboards -- will be sold or donated.

Exhibit B: "We do it the old fashioned way, we earn it!"

I complain about the same stupid things over and over again -- day after day -- and nothing changes. An hour ago -- Jerod interrupted my typing. (I was in our room with the door closed.)

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Are you working on the blog or the book?"

"I'm typing. Does it really matter what I'm working on?"

He looked at me with a shocked, confused expression like I've never complained about his interruptions before. MOTHER OF PEARL -- He's proofread a dozen posts about them.

Last night at 9:30 -- I told him I was going to bed.

"Good night."

I was just on sleep's doorstep at 10:25 when he barged in the room -- the door was closed, the lights were out, the T.V. was off.

"I didn't know you were sleeping in here."

"Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

There will be NO MORE FREE LUNCHES in this establishment -- be prepared.

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About Me

/AB-E-NORMAL/ I'm a neurotic artist and writer who can't find a living-wage job in my field, because literacy and creativity aren't marketable skills. I used to be a newspaper reporter until the world dumped newspapers and newspapers dumped me with a heart felt "you are a great reporter, and this has nothing to do with your performance."